After a moment, he climbed the steps and crossed the porch, pushing open the glass-paneled door.

Unlike most people, he didn't pause when he stepped inside. Even someone who knows what they want and how to find it will usually stop to orient themselves, to check out the new-books display and the magazines. The step, the pause, the glance, the turn, the search; people only do this in bookstores. I think it's because books mostly look alike on the outside; it's harder to tell Nietzsche from Jane Eyre than it is to tell a hammer from a screwdriver or an apple from a potato.

This was different. He looked around for people instead of books and he did it on the move, already ducking not-quite-furtively behind the nearest shelf even as he took in the fact that I was the only one in the shop. I remember wondering if he was planning to steal something, but it's hard to come up with many reasons people would steal books, especially this far out in the country. They have a low resale value, after all, and you can't eat them.

He pretended to read the cookbooks for a while, then drifted past the science fiction novels to the small rack of art books near the back. He studied the spines, tilting his head this way or that to see them better. He did finally reach for a book, above and to the left of the art section – home improvement. A relatively large shelf of them, given the size of my shop, but I live in a town of do-it-yourselfers.

He looked up at me to see if I was busy, and I set aside the books I had been sorting, moving the box to the floor. He ducked out of the protective shelter of the shelves and crossed the open floor hurriedly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet at the same time he set his chosen prize on the counter.

Unfortunately – more for him than anyone – Carmen burst into the shop just as he reached me. Clara was in her arms, squealing in outrage and clutching the book she'd lifted from my shelves. Carmen hustled up next to him and pointed to the unhappy child in her arms.

"Christopher, she took it. I'm so sorry, you know how she is," she said. "I didn't even notice – "

"Please, it's all right," I said. My prospective customer silently backed away a few steps. "I could have stopped her. She seemed to like it."

"Well, let me pay you – "

"I'll put it on account," I said, packaging up the book for my customer. What I thought was his book, anyway. "Pay when you have cash on you."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, Carmen. Say no more." I held out my hand for the cash and my silent customer pressed exact change into it, which I dumped into the till.

"Thanks so much. I really am sorry," Carmen said, as Clara continued to wail.

"It's no problem. Clara, sweet child, be silent before I make you eat that," I said, and Clara shut her mouth abruptly. "You see?" I added to Carmen. "It's all in the tone."

"You're the best, Christopher. See you tomorrow!"

She left with Clara taking a renewed interest in the book, rustling the pages excitedly. I glanced around, but the silent young man in the tan jacket had disappeared as well.

It wasn't precisely a momentous occasion. People bought books from me every day. Strangers came into the shop all the time, especially in the summer months when the tourist season pulls in most of the yearly profit. Some were standoffish, uncomfortable with the closeness of the village locals. As far as I knew he was just another backpacker on his way to somewhere else. I didn't think much about it for a few days, until we saw each other again.

I was having dinner at the cafe, sitting at one of the window tables that faced out into the street. I ate in the cafe a good deal of the time, mainly because cooking for one was not much cheaper, and the cafe was so much more sociable. From the corner table at the window I could keep an eye on the shop, greet friends as they came in, and watch life revolve around me while I ate my food. Good food from the local farms, too: sweet tomatoes, ripe apples, bread, glorious yellow onions, chicken that had been pecking and squawking and scratching the day before.

By the time I'd finished dinner the streetlights were going on, and the lights in the shop windows as well. Dusk Books was eventually the only dark storefront, which meant it was time I should be getting home again. I was just putting on my coat when I happened to glance up and saw him again, standing on the sidewalk. That same brown jacket and short hair, the same hesitation, shoulders pulled in, tense and shy. He waited until a crowd of people left the cafe before he tried to enter, then caught the door on the back-swing and stepped inside, reaching behind him with his other hand to keep it from slamming when it closed.

"I beg your pardon," I said with a smile, allowing him room to pass. He ducked his head and hurried on, looking as though he was unsure whether he ought to seat himself or wait for someone to help him. I turned for a backwards glance and saw Carmen guide him to another window table, sweeping up my plate and payment as she returned to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water and a menu.

Looking back at him as I was, I nearly ran into a young boy on the doorstep of the cafe. He looked like a local kid, about twelve years old and vaguely familiar. I was nearly certain he came in with the others to buy comic books, or the occasional required reading for school.

"Scuse me," he said.

"No, my fault," I replied. "Are you going in?"

"Do you know who that is?" he asked, peering around me at the window, where the young man sat hidden from the street behind a low curtain.

"Of course not," I answered. "Do you?"

"Not yet!" the boy said cheerfully. "He just moved here."

"Has he now."